


Once Burned, Twice Shy

by Trapelo_Road475



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: M/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 06:15:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trapelo_Road475/pseuds/Trapelo_Road475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Porn Battle prompt: Patrick Jane/Wayne Rigsby, handcuffs, touch</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once Burned, Twice Shy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ruuger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruuger/gifts).



What Wayne Rigsby lacks most is confidence.

Patrick Jane knows this, and he is seldom wrong.

But Rigsby is maybe keener to the world and its people than Patrick guesses; Rigsby is maybe wiser in his own right, in the measure of an upbringing outside the nomadic clan of the carnival. The midway, the glitz and the glitter, is the cathedral of a fairground, sticky lips and wide eyes and the first blush of new love and games and toys and gaudy promises and heavy secrets in the shadows.

Wayne is not a churchgoer. Never was. Never believed in his heart the god they gave him. Wayne Rigsby used to investigate arson. He was, and he is still, good at it. Wayne Rigsby is a man used to sifting destruction. He knows shadows, and fire.

This is how they arrived at this place of rough breath and skin. Shadows and fire. There is still ash in their hair and one of Patrick's arms is all wrapped up in white and Rigsby took him aside when he was re-wrapping it (gauze gripped up in teeth) and tutted something about infection.

Most people are afraid of fire; rightly so. Fire. Drowning. Those are the big fears. It comes down to being trapped. Patrick is adept at escaping human capture - but fire and water don't listen to a silver tongue. The elements don't give a damn. Like white walls in a locked room, when he didn't care anymore.

Maybe that's why. Maybe it's because he thinks that Wayne understands fire, and being trapped, and fear, and Patrick Jane the consultant and the ex-psychic isn't afraid of anyone or anything, but he is only a person.

The space between them of breath and grimed skin and ash and deft hands folding and wrapping a bandage closes, and there is a minute shift in Patrick's muscles that he recognizes, after a blinking moment, as relaxing. While he sits on the counter in the breakroom in the all-gone-home-dark, Wayne kisses his cheek, and his neck, patient, without hunger, kisses the hollow of his throat and touches him through his pants and pulls him close with fingers in his curls and clutching the back of his shirt. He is almost as tall as Wayne is this way. He can see into his eyes.

Patrick makes a secret sound. His fingers find the belt and buckle and zip and he strokes Wayne's erection. Wayne is very quiet. He might not have guessed that. Wayne draws his fingers forth and back on Patrick's hot skin. Aroused. Like fire lapping eagerly at walls and curtains and darkening windows. Instinct puts his leg around the back of Wayne's knee. Wayne moves them both together, a thing consuming, hot breath, shoulder smells of smoke, the bandage pulls his wounded skin, he trembles, he relaxes, he trembles, he forgets what it's like, forgets what pleasure is. This is not the midway lights. This is not the longing in a church. This is fire.

Wayne pants against his throat and kisses him, and their hands fumble, hard parts, Patrick touching Wayne and Wayne touching Patrick and both of them rutting together. Over and over and over without the breath for words like smoke and sweat and shaded windows until Patrick throws his arms around Wayne's shoulder and makes a louder noise that he forgot he knew how to make, and Wayne grunts and sighs against him. The feeling in his bones.

Wayne strokes his hair. For both of them.


End file.
